


A Change of Scenery

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Burglary, Dark Curtain Fic, M/M, Obsession, Other, Pre-Canon, Spoilers - The Last Mabelcorn, Subtext, Tattoos, Triangle Bill Cipher, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-11-01 05:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10914882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: How Ford redecorated his house with pictures of Bill.(Always he wants more. It's never enough.)





	A Change of Scenery

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Français available: [Changement de décor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11205753) by [Nelja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja)



> Betareading by Nevanna. Thank you!

Ford sketches Bill's figure in his notebook; he's not satisfied with it. The drawing looks like, well, a triangle. It might be the way Ford saw him first. But he no longer believes that geometry can convey the shiny and soft texture of his limbs, or the expression of his eye, or the delicacy of his eyelashes, or the way he seems fuzzy when Ford looks at him from the side, like wavering between the second and the third dimension.

Not to mention the brilliance of his conversations, his jokes, his patience when explaining to Ford part of his higher knowledge...

Ford's hand stands still above the paper, eyes unfocused, smile on his lips, thoughts lost in happy memories. Each time he woke up after meeting Bill, he took pages of notes. He wanted to summarize them into a Journal page, but he couldn't write it objectively, scientifically. Also, he wanted to know more, waited for a conclusion. But now he wants it never to be over, just a beginning for a never-ending adventure.

He critically looks at his sketch. No, it's not what he hoped for yet. He tears away the page, but can't bring himself to throw it away.

The following night is one of the blessed ones where his Muse comes to him. They talk about the history of magic, about the practitioners Bill knew, about why it's so common in legends and so rare in reality. Ford isn't a very good conversationalist, but with Bill it seems so natural. He even heartily replies, without feeling clumsy or uninteresting, even if he could just listen to him for hours.

"By the way, I knew you were good with a pen, but not that I would be your model. Very flattering. Why didn't you show me?"

Ford feels his cheeks heating. "It was a rough draft," he replies. "I can do better." He takes the firm resolution of creating something worthy of... well, of a Muse. "By the way, how... how did you know?"

"I know everything, Fordsy!" Bill proclaims, raising a finger. "But i'm gonna tell you a secret." He gets close to Ford's ear; Ford shivers, feeling the brick surface against his hair.

"I _especially_ know what I can see through any picture of me!" Bill says, without lowering his voice even a bit. "So, when you're drawing me, I see your hands, I see your face."

Ford wonders how he must have looked when he was drawing. So Bill saw... but no, it's not a secret, it's not that different from the way Ford can't get his eyes off him when Bill visits his dreamworld.

"Was it a good surprise?" Ford asks, pleasantly but hoping for reassurance.

"Oh, Sixer. I wouldn't say it was a _surprise_ but I don't complain _at all_."

Ford is sure his cheeks are glowing red, as Bill keeps talking. "If I didn't like your company, I wouldn't come to you," he says cheerfully. "And if I didn't like how you look, or how you look at me, I'd..." he snaps his fingers, "I guess I'd turn you into something else. But I don't. I love looking at you, Fordsy."

Ford knows it's a dream, but he still feels his heart beating in his chest, his veins pulsate in his whole body. He waits for Bill to follow up quickly with some unrelated thing, as he does, but the silence seems to last an eternity. If Bill wants an answer from him, he has to talk, to say something.

"I wish I could see you too, everywhere and always." he says, too confused to be stopped by his own embarrassment.

"Oh, you know how to talk to triangles!" Bill jokes. Maybe all this is just a joke, Ford thinks, as his Muse asks whether he made progress on other parts of his Journal, especially on these cryptic engravings he showed him. It allows Ford to regain his footing, to break free from these few seconds and what they made him imagine.

But part of him has still taken this very seriously.

* * *

Ford came to the supermarket in order to restock food for a few weeks. He doesn't buy groceries for fun. But his eyes drift over everything triangle shaped.

It's not only here. He found himself playing this game at home, or in the woods. Looking at a cloud, at a space between a tree's leaves.

He wondered which triangles were enough for Bill to look at him, for their eyes to meet. Then he blushed, feeling too obsessed if it was false, too bold if it was true.

 _I wish I could see you too, everywhere and always_ , he said. It's happening now. He should laugh about it. He even hesitated in front of some nachos, before deciding that no, it doesn't count, and it would be too irreverent.

Then he sees, in the section of bauble no one ever buys, a transparent paperweight shaped like a pyramid. Heavy plastic molded to look like glass. And it's probably just an illusion, but the bland artificial light, split up by the prism, seems to wink at him.

He puts it into his cart and tries to look natural, like a scientist who works with a lot of paper sheets and needs a paperweight for entirely legitimate reasons.

It seems to work. No cashier comments as he pays. None of them ever commented, even on his six fingers. Compared to this, his heart beating heavily for a pyramid or a triangle seems normal, doesn't it?

When he comes home, before even taking care of the food, he puts the prism on his desk. It seems more right than anything ever. He smiles while he works, unable to hold back glimpses at his new acquisition, like he’s looking for something.

At night Bill comes to him again, only a few days after the last time, less than usual. He also seems even more joyful, and, as Ford asks him about the curvature of the universe, he lands on his hair.

"By the way," he asks, changing the subject once more, "did I already tell you how I appeared in this world for the first time?"

"No!" Ford replies. Bill's tales are fascinating, but he's far from being able to sort them chronologically.

"It was here, in Gravity Falls, long before Europeans knew how to build a decent boat! These ones actually came by foot. I appeared to one of their shamans, and he treated me very deferentially. Of course, I learnt later he acted the same with everyone, even the Manotaur leader, so I don't know if I should feel good about it."

He laughs, and Ford laughs with him. He feels Bill's small, soft hands on the skin of his head.

"He was ready to offer me sacrifices, food, drinks, live animals even - but it was a bit limited, wasn't it? On the other hand, he drew me on lots of things, including the murals you saw, and I appreciated the attention. The more it spread, the better I knew this world, beyond the basic principles. And now, with one thing leading to another, I own every one dollar bill! I am rich!"

Ford is grateful to Bill for clearly telling him he likes effigies of himself, even if Ford wasn't brave enough to ask.

"What happened to these items?" Ford asks. "They must be rare and precious." Priceless, he thinks, and already dreams about getting one.

"Oh, the Northwests have most of them." Ford pouts in disgust. The richest local family gave him a bad impression, and now they own what they certainly don't deserve. Furthermore, he doubts their eagerness to show their collection to a nameless, penniless scientist.

"It's a habit they got," Bill says, "but clearly they no longer know how to appreciate what they represent.

Ford is positive he would do better.

* * *

Ford also bought paint. He's not bad with this, even if he used pen or pencil more these days.

Of course, he wants to own a portrait of Bill. But maybe it's an experiment too. Was it the reason for those soft hands in his hear, those more affectionate words? He wants to know, and there's no other way. Except for asking, which is out of the question.

He feels more inspired than last time. He can better convey his looks and expression. The vividly yellow paint helps too. He paints right on his office's wall, to create a fresco only his eyes will see.

After he finishes, he feels a bit dizzy. He drew his Muse surrounded by blue flames, on a very dark red background. A ludicrous idea comes to him: that it represents his heart's blood. It was far from his thoughts when he was painting, he thought is was just for the color harmony.

"Hello, Bill," he says to the painting. He's sure Bill is looking at him right now. He wants to say more.

"Thank you," he murmurs, "thanks for being my everything." It's easier to speak this way, and his heart feels lighter.

He puts a handful of one dollar bills in the corridor - like a stock for the groceries - like an offering actually.

He still feels like this isn't enough.

He goes out in the garden to get some air, looks at his house. The pointy roof is one of the multiple triangles he can't help noticing. But this square window breaks the illusion. He should have made it triangular, or at least round, maybe eye-shaped.

A memory from his childhood comes back to him. He and Stan were hiding from angry bullies. Their leader hadn't taken well to Stan beating him, so he had brought reinforcements. Lots of them.

Their pursuers were getting closer, and the trash cans hiding them seemed very small. Stan had picked up a stone and, before Ford could protest, had thrown it in the closest shop window.

Who was to be accused, when a gang of precociously sinister-looking kids were passing by?

They had avoided the worst by a hair’s breadth. Stan was more intelligent than Ford this time. Or braver, or more open-minded. But it was all the more frustrating to see him refusing to work on tests, even when he could do as well as his brother...

Ford shakes his head to wish the unpleasant thoughts away. He only keeps the main idea. What would Stan do? A broken pane would need repairing. But changing the shape of the window into a triangle would be so much more satisfying.

Well, Ford can do everything Stan could do, better even

Walking to the bar where he's almost sure to meet Boyish Dan, he rehearses the lie he planned. He can do this too, can't he? And why would Dan complain about doing the structure again, if he's paid?

"Hello, Mr Corduroy," he says with a strained smile. "I'd need your services. As I was researching, I had a little accident with a flamethrower..."

* * *

Every room in the house is now decorated with triangles. It's not only the sun going through these windows, it's Bill's gaze, on Ford at all times, warming him, stirring him.

The bathroom only stays private, and it's not because he wants to hide anything from Bill. It's more a kind of embarrassment; he's not sure he wants Bill to see such a spectacle. Of course if Bill wanted to...

But he doesn't want to think about it. It's a dangerous slippery slope.

He works more than ever at classifying Gravity Falls' weird phenomena. He wants Bill to be proud of him when he looks at him. He wants to be perfect for him. He wants to never hide anything from him, like he opened his thoughts to him.

And Bill comes to him more and more often, as if filling the house with pictures of him had created an infinite number of links between them, gotten them closer to each other.

"A few years ago, I would have dreamt to observe only one of these phenomena," Ford muses, "And now it's no longer enough for me."

"Tell me what changed," Bill asks.

"So many incredible things happening in the same place! There must be a pattern! If it's more than just one exception, maybe I can understand..."

He stops, and Bill carries on, encouraging. "Why all this exists. Why it is necessary. Why I exist. Why you exist."

Ford blushes from hearing him tell this so directly. He looks at his six fingers with mixed feelings, bitterness and pride. But this is it. Exactly what he wishes for, what in his youth he couldn't dream of.

"And me,” Bill still speaks “I met humans everywhere in the world, wizards, scientists, but wouldn't it make sense if I found the one I've been searching for in Gravity Falls? Some kind of destiny?"

Bill praises Ford often, but never before did he allude to Ford being that special to him.

"Bill," he starts. "I wish..."

He didn't think when he started his sentence, didn't think it needed an ending. He stammers. What would he want? To be even closer to his Muse, to do everything he asks of him, to kneel before him, any form of offering to release a bit of the emotional storm rumbling in himself.

Bill interrupts him, saving him from humiliation. "I haven't thanked you for the redecorating work. I love this, Fordsy! How to make me feel appreciated, exhibit... with you even I can no longer count. But you’re giving me one of the best ones, for sure."

Ford feels dizzy with joy and excitation. "You deserve more," he replies. He hopes Bill will give him hints about how to show his worship even better, without limits.

"No, you deserve more!" Bill claims. Ford hesitates, brimming with hope and bewilderment.

"And I mean, you certainly deserve to own other similar things, more than the Northwests do!" Bill continues. "How do you feel about a little burglary? I know everything; it includes details on their security system."

"It would be..."

Ford almost said that it would be wrong. But thinking about it, he's not sure. it's certainly illegal. Maybe it's because of his parents; they did so many things both illegal and immoral when he was a child that the difference was fuzzy. But then Ford grew. There was Fiddleford, his good heart, his illegal protests... yeah, he should know the difference.

Anyway most of the people who have a right to these items are dead, and the only one left is Bill.

"It would be an honor," he replies.

* * *

Ford wears dark gray, to be less noticeable in the dark while he climbs up the lane to the Northwest Mansion. The trees are half-concealing him, but only one look by a window would compromise the mission. Bill can't help him for this part.

The metal gate is, of course, closed. Good thing Ford kept in shape. A magnetic grappling hook is enough to go through. An antigravity generator would have taken him too much time, and he no longer wants to wait.

Bear traps are abundant and well hidden in the dark, but this part is easy. Bill gave him their position in great detail.

_Just beware the dogs, Fordsy! They let them out at night only, because they would give guests heart attacks! But you've got better taste than the average visitor, for sure._

Some of them are big and well trained but ordinary animals. Some meatballs dosed with narcotics are useful in these circumstances. But there are other ones, mutant creatures, with more limbs and multiple rows of teeth.

For these ones, Bill gave him the formula of a special elixir. Briefly, he sees one of these monsters leaping towards him and he panics, protecting himself with his hands. He never tested it in life-and-death situations, of course.

Then the creature falls in full jump, and Ford has time to feel ashamed about his lack of faith. Bill won't abandon or endanger him.

He can't help staring at this new kind of dog. A really interesting specimen. Mutations are induced by chemicals from Northwest Industries, and Ford could even admire the work, if it was on purpose. On any other day, he would take a specimen home. But what he came for is worth so many more.

He reaches the front door at last. He thinks no one noticed him. He takes his injector from his pocket; it lets in the keyhole a fluid matter, solidifying pretty quickly, molded into a key. He pushes the crank handle, and the improvised key turns into the lock. He quietly pushes the door.

At this time, everyone should sleep.

 _They have so many servants, so many ghosts_ , Bill joked, _they won't worry about footsteps._

He knows exactly where he has to go. Neither in the corridor, nor in the huge living room on the left, are there any artworks of Bill.

 _But they used to be_ , said his Muse, _so I know the way._

And now Ford knows too. He knows he has to take the small door on the opposite side, to climb down a narrow flight of stairs, and all will be here... he sees the motion sensors used as security.

 _You could leap above them!_ Bill was saying. _Backward somersaults! I'll show you exactly where the lasers are!_

But Ford isn't confident enough in his physical skills. He activates another of the devices he built, instead. The motion sensor fights a little, lights a few diodes and dies.

Ford can at last enter what the Northwests would call a storeroom and most museums a treasure. There are pieces with millenary history, others worth millions of dollars. Ford passes without looking.

He only has eyes for representations of his Muse. One of them is pure gold, a six-armed statue so heavy that he wonders how he will carry it. But he can't leave it behind. He also takes a heavy embroidered carpet. And smaller pieces, jewels he puts into a vase, everything he can find. At the end, his bag and his arms are full. His exaltation is only matched by his anxiety, his fear of getting caught, of having done all this for nothing.

He climbs up the stairs very slowly, as quietly as he can. No one blocks his path. The great front door is still open. He carefully closes it behind him, an almost superstitious measure.

As he comes back to the garden, remembering his way around the bear traps - one step left, two steps behind, three steps right, keep a good stride despite the weight on his shoulders - another dog appears in front of him.

Ford almost steps back, falling into one of the traps. He'd search his pockets for meatballs, but he made a mistake, the beast is too close and they're not accessible right now with his bag in the way.

But the creature doesn't attack him. Ford notices it's not only white but half-transparent, like a kind of ghost.

"I'm not from the Northwest family," he says. The ghosts are haunting them, he believed, even if Bill was not thorough on this. "I actually came to steal something from them."

The ghost dog tries to affectionately rub against his leg, but passes through. Ford would like to pet him. But leaving right now is more important than finding a way.

The climbing is more tiresome, carrying his loot's weight, but he manages it without being interrupted. He rungs until home. His legs and arms are worn out, but he's far too excited to sleep.

He gets every one of his treasures from his bag, looks at them with a good light. He lines them up on the carpet he rolled out first. They're magnificent. The statue in particular shines like a little sun, even at the feeble inside light.

He's already on his knees, and it seems so natural to prostrate himself in front of these images.

As he leans forward, he puts his lips to the golden statue. it's sacrilegious, yet the rightest thing he's done since he's born.

A stunning happiness preys on him, devours him. He doesn't understand what's happening to him, but it's not important.

Falling asleep, he dives into a feverish frenzy, without discontinuity from reality. In both worlds, he knelt before Bill, kissed him until his lips bled, but he can't remember his Muse's reactions and he guesses it was, well, just a dream.

* * *

"You did it, IQ!" Bill shouts.

It's done. After a night of half-sleeping, Ford lies on his bed at last, in the Dreamscape he knows.

"Yes..." he murmurs. He needs a few moments, to remember what was real, what was a dream.

"I never doubted you, but I didn't try to guess the details either, I wanted the surprise. You were brilliant!"

He flutters around, gets in front of Ford's head, takes his cheeks in his hands. Ford is used by now to the feeling of Bill’s skin softly burning his.

"So, how does it feel, owning all these materialized versions of me?" Bill asks.

It's not an easy question, but Ford doesn’t take time to think about it. "I love it." It's only the surface. "I feel like it creates a link between us."

"Don't you think that was already here?" Bill's hands play with his cheeks, pinching and pulling. Ford's heart leaps in his chest.

"Do you feel like I'm yours, owning all these statues?" Bill asks.

"No!" Ford feels almost offended by this blasphemous idea.

"Oh." Bill gets closer to him, so close. "Do you feel like you're mine?"

Ford can't think his words though, not now. He can only let his emotions speak, shameful and wild.

"Not yet, but I want to."

 _Please_ , he thinks, _please take me, mark me, assimilate me_. He doesn't know how. The human ways he can imagine seem crude, but his impure body calls for them, and his wild mind wishes for more.

He could offer Bill his heart, body and mind, he wants him to accept them, he wishes him to seal this by a ritual as eloquent as his feelings are. Everything Bill wants.

Bill pushes him back, soft but unstoppable. Ford accepts the fall. He feels like he's paralyzed as Bill flats above him, his shadow falling on his eyes.

"Maybe one day," Bill says, his voice deeper than usual. "Surprise me."

Ford wakes up with a start, feverish again. This dream was too short, but it's daytime already.

He looks at his new possessions, puts most of them in his secret office. So the police can visit him and see there's nothing, if they need to. He trusts Bill to protect him against those hazards too, when the time comes. Amused, he thinks about Bill witnessing every police corruption as green bills change hands.

His precious items don't make him as happy as they did yesterday, he realizes. Pride got dulled. He feels too removed from these images, like he isn't worthy to worship them.

His whole house is an altar to Bill's glory. Everything he owns belongs to Bill, that's the reason he feels an outsider. He should be the happiest person in the world, but he isn’t. He worships his Muse with every part of his mind, but it's still not enough, and Bill can't do anything with his useless body.

But he can rectify this. For Bill, he can do anything.

First he goes to the bathroom with a saw, a blowtorch, some glue and two big towels.

Then he goes to town. Some friends of Boyish Dan's answer his questions without any defiance. He already can tell what he wants. He has his pile of torn papers.

When he comes home, head high, teeth grit, he directly enters the bathroom and removes his sweater, then his shirt, then the dressing on his collarbone.

The Bill-shaped tattoo still bleeds a little, not as beautiful as it will be in a few weeks. But Bill won't mind, Ford is sure of it. Not when Ford marked himself, turned himself into a holy object for him.

Now he can show Bill his naked body. It changes everything. Because he gave it to him, the only way he could.

He pulls off the towels he put on the mirrors. It was easy to cut a square into two opposite triangles, and now, if body is reflected endlessly, wearing Bill's mark; his Muse is looking at him right now, Ford knows it. Exaltation, dull pain and painkillers make him dizzy.

In the mirror, his tattoo comes alive and talks to him.

"Fordsy," he says, "my wonderful human boy, you did it. You're mine. Come to me."

Ford falls on the floor in a heap of towels. Why would he try not to faint? Bil is calling to him from the dream world, and he responds.

At last he will give Bill everything, or Bill will give everything to him. He's not sure he can tell the difference anymore.


End file.
